


Two Immortals, One Fate

by TyalanganD



Category: Merlin (TV), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Hope, Light Angst, Post-Finale, songs of regret, two loners, two lost souls finding some solace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28899060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TyalanganD/pseuds/TyalanganD
Summary: Waiting for Arthur's return on the shore of lake Avalon, Merlin meets a peculiar stranger. It soon turns out that the two of them share more than Merlin could have imagined...
Kudos: 20





	Two Immortals, One Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that is a niche crossover if ever there was one! But ever since I watched Merlin Finale (and cried the lake of Avalon's worth in tears), I knew I had to write this one day. There are just too many similarities between Maglor and Merlin. And Tolkien was partly inspired by Arthurian legend. So. The two worlds just had to be united. I hope you enjoy.

Merlin doesn’t remember the year it happened. All the years have been a maze since Arthur’s death – only, at first, they were a painful maze, while later, they took on a shape of indifference.

Merlin got used to people wandering around the lake of Avalon, disturbing him in his waiting, sometimes even trying to swim or fish in the lake – at least, the Sidhe were good at keeping the humans off their realm, creating whirlpools and storms, so that Avalon soon became known for its treacherous waters. That didn’t prevent people from walking around and admiring the view, though. Merlin got used to making himself invisible to them. He didn’t want to become a local curiosity, a man who doesn’t do anything save sitting on the shore and straining his eyes, staring at the isle in the middle of the lake.

But Merlin definitely isn’t used to people singing on the shore. And singing so beautifully.

This isn’t the first time Merlin hears music on the shore of Avalon. He still remembers the fool of a minstrel who took his lady to the lake to sing his misplaced love for her (the more misplaced the more his lute was out of tune, and his voice hoarse from the overabundance of wine). The lady didn’t seem impressed, so the minstrel decided to take the matters in his own hands more decisively – and more literally. Merlin took some pleasure in breaking the man’s neck magically from the distance, so that neither him, nor the lady had any idea who did it. 

The song that travels across the waters of Avalon now has nothing to do with the drunken braying of the minstrel, though.

It is sung in a language Merlin doesn’t know, and he knows almost all of them, having lived multiple lifetimes and observed the tongues shifting, the accents fluctuating, the new languages arriving. This song sounds like something ancient, older than Merlin himself, and this surely is an achievement. And it carries across the water like none of the human songs has any right to do.

At first, Merlin thinks about the Sidhe and their treacherous songs, designed to ensnare people and drown them, joining the fairies in their underwater kingdom. The kingdom where Arthur sleeps. They are very keen on taking, the Sidhe are, but not so keen on giving back.

Merlin gets up and slowly walks in the direction of the voice. It is truly beautiful. No human can sing like that, the pitch beyond perfect, the voice literally evoking colors, lush smells and images which flow around Merlin’s head even though he doesn’t understand the tongue. And they aren’t peaceful images: there is war, fire, and people – are those people? – falling side by side, their bodies torn by vicious beats worse than anything Merlin has ever seen. There are people standing together, a family resemblance between them, with their swords drawn, swearing an oath in the same tongue the song is sung in. And there are three jewels, radiant beyond radiance, bigger than the vessel containing the soul of Cornelius Sigan, and far more beautiful. Merlin squints, overpowered by the brilliance. He has a strange feeling – that he must have seen one of those jewels before… but where? In the Crystal Cave, perhaps? But the crystals were like mirrors, they didn’t give their own light.

Before Merlin is able to discern more of the images, they disappear in the air and the song stops. And that’s when Merlin realizes he’s already facing the singer, frozen and dumbstruck.

Merlin’s glamor – his invisibility spell which always works on people – doesn’t work on this stranger.

Because he is no human. Though his dark hair is long and tangled, Merlin can see the tips of his pointy ears sticking through. Though his face is worn and tired beyond tiredness – briefly, Merlin realizes that it’s exactly how his own face must appear to others – his eyes are not human-old, but ancient, carrying thousands of years of experience and longing. These are the eyes of an elder race. 

The man sitting before him is an elf.

“I greet you, Emrys,” says the stranger. He’s speaking in the language of spells, but he’s not uttering a spell, and his words magically hang around his head before dispersing slowly into the mist. Merlin is no longer surprised that a stranger knows his druid name. He experienced it more than enough – all those prophets speaking of his destiny. He’s sick of them.

“Who are you?” Merlin responds in the same tongue, for the first time just speaking in it, and the effect is peculiar. He feels his eyes lighting gold, but no spells are happening. It’s like his magic curls around him, ready to act, waiting.

“I am Maglor of the house of Fëanor,” the stranger says. “Fëanor’s son. I know why you wait on this shore, lucky warlock.”

“Lucky?” Merlin can’t quite muster indignation – he’s way past strong feelings by now – but surprise still shines through his words like a lightning. He sits by Maglor’s side.

“Aye, lucky, for your king and love is coming back one day,” Maglor says, his voice almost as melodious as his song, “while I wander the shores of Middle Earth till Arda is destroyed and the world made anew.”

_Middle Earth? Arda?_ Merlin isn’t familiar with the lore. He vaguely remembers the Danes coming to the land, the fierce Vikings burning, pillaging and raping – and he remembers their songs about Midgard, which apparently meant Middle Earth in their harsh tongue. They believed there to be nine worlds – all too many for Merlin’s taste – and their own world to be exactly in the middle of it all.

“Do you know that Avalon has a different name in the tongue of my people?” asks Maglor suddenly. “’tis called Valinor.”

Merlin shrugs. Names are just names. They describe – like Emrys, describing his lamentable immortality – but they never change anything. So Merlin isn’t very keen to inquire.

“What were you singing about?” he asks instead. “I saw images in the air, though I didn’t know the tongue.”

“What did you see?”

So Merlin tells him about the wars and the fire, the oaths and the jewels. Maglor nods, listening, clasping his ancient harp in his hands, his eyes half-closed, his brow furrowed in pain.

“All true,” he says when Merlin finishes. “All of this happened before you and your king came to this world, in fact, long ages before that. My father had made the jewels – Silmarils he called them – and the Enemy, Morgoth of the Valar, took them. Father vowed to take them back at all cost. He vowed to kill everyone who possesses them save him and his sons alone. This oath destroyed our lives. Six brothers I had, and a father. All of them died in pursue of the jewels. I am the only one left.”

Merlin is not sure what to think of all this, of this lore which is more ancient than the Crystal Cave itself. But Maglor’s last sentence rings so true that he dares not question the elf’s words.

“Did you retrieve the Silmarils?” he asks. Maglor shakes his head, a sad smile curving his lips.

“We were not worthy. In the end, we killed our kin for them. We flooded the shores of Tirion and Middle Earth in blood, worse bane for our cousins than even the Enemy himself. In the end, the Silmarils, which cannot bear to be held by a tainted hand, burned and rejected us. Look.”

He outstretches his right hand and Merlin sees the burn marks – old, very old; but they must come from a terrible wound, if the elf’s immortal skin retained them after so many an age.

“I threw one of the Silmarils to the sea, so it is lost. Perchance it still lingers there, in Ulmo’s realm. My brother, Maedhros, threw himself into the fire, clutching the other one.” Maglor stops, lost for words. Merlin takes his left hand and squeezes without a word. The elf looks at him, his eyes widened in surprise.

“And the third Silmaril?” Merlin asks. “In your song, I saw three.”

“It is in the heavens. The brightest star to adorn the night sky. The beacon of hope. The only one left for me.”

After a moment’s pause, he adds:

“The earth, the sea, the sky. The Silmarils build the core of this world. They still seep their wondrous magic into the elements, and that is the only thing that keeps me sane. They gave birth to much good and beauty in this world.”

_The earth, the sea, the sky._ Merlin is lost for words. He remembers what Balinor told him in the Crystal Cave. He wants to ask Maglor for more, but he dares not.

But he doesn’t have to.

“I can see their light in your eyes, Emrys,” Maglor says, smiling softly. “You are woven of their magic, gentle and terrible, all at once.”

For the first time in years, Merlin feels a flutter in his stomach, a shadow of hope and joy filling his heart. There has been so much talk of his magic and how it was supposed to serve destiny – the everlasting burden crushing Merlin’s arms – but not much of what it is. Last time when Merlin felt a deep sense of self-worth was when his father came to him as a spirit. Back then, Merlin thought he could do anything he want – become one with the elements, or overcome them.

But then, Arthur died in his arms.

And Merlin stopped believing in his magic. He barely used it since, only to shield himself from prying eyes and ears. To disappear.

Now, the sense of hope is back.

“Take heart, your king will rise again,” says Maglor. “If you will, I can compose a ballad of him. I can even sing it in your magic tongue, the one you call ancient, though it is far too young for my ears. Singing your sorrow helps overcome it.”

Merlin only nods. No words are needed between those bound by a similar fate.

He will wait. But now he knows – he will not wait alone.


End file.
